Well, the visit has flown by, and tomorrow morning I will repack the car–which will now be overflowing with approximately half a toy store’s worth of loot for the kids and one of every item from the girl’s department at Target (that’s what happens when Grandma offers to take Chickadee shopping for “a dress,” much to Chickadee’s delight)–and head back home.
I could tell you that this was always the plan, and that would be true. But let’s be clear: It’s supposed to SNOW here tomorrow. I love my parents and everything, but COME ON. It’s nearly May. That sort of weather is just against my religion. I need to get back to New England where we already have mosquitoes as big as golf balls by now.
We had a great time in spite of the fact that the weather was dreary and Monkey kept crashing full-tilt into various pieces of furniture (“STUPID TABLE!” he bellowed as he rubbed his wounded knee; “STUPID COUNTER!” after he smacked his head) and Chickadee had a stomach ache tonight. The kids were allowed to play with their Gameboys, which they ordinarily don’t get to have at my house, and also received tomagatchis from my mom.
I had thought, previously, that the Gameboys were sort of like crack. Rather than deal with attempting to regulate them, I banned them from the house. It just seemed easier that way. But this was before I saw the tomagatchis. Now I understand that the Gameboys were really more like a bit of weed, and the tomagatchis, hooboy, they’re full-fledged blow. The children have spent HOURS just… I don’t know… feeding little pixelated blobs and waiting for them to poop. Which, okay; fair enough to point out that that’s sort of like the early days of caring for an infant. Sure. But infants eventually become PEOPLE and tomagatchi blobs eventually become… slightly larger tomagatchi blobs. The entire thing confuses me.
On the other hand, I don’t expect to hear a lot of “are we there yet?”s on the way home tomorrow, either.
Also I must confess that addictive behavior rather runs in the family. Here I am, ragging on my kids and their tomagatchis, only because I’ve RUN OUT OF SUDOKUS. (No, I cannot do them on the web. I need to make notes. Shut up.) Only my stepmom seems to know how to tame her printer, and each night my dad and I have sat side by side working on our sudokus which she’s printed out for us. Tonight we both ran out and harangued her until she printed more. To her credit, although her facial expression clearly said, “You people need professional help,” she was quick to provide us each with a new batch of puzzles before either of us started to cry.
In thanks for her tolerance of our problem, my dad and I also like to have some late-night dessert on occasion and try to get her to join us. We start with “Want to have some?” and quickly move on to “All the cool kids are doing it!” and “You know you want to!” My father even progresses to “I have ONE BITE LEFT if you want to come over here RIGHT NOW, but after this all the yummy cake will be ALL GONE.”
We’re a family of dealers. And addicts. The shame. Oh, the shame!
The delicious, chocolate frostinged numerical shame….